


Say Goodbye To Your Childhood

by FoundInTheStars



Series: Starmora Week 2019 [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Peter Quill Has PTSD, Peter Quill Needs a Hug, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Starmora Week 2019, Team as Family, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 07:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoundInTheStars/pseuds/FoundInTheStars
Summary: In front of him, a myriad of various spirits and empty bottles lay haphazardly across the floor. Peter was testing his limits with a few shots now and again, but he was currently eyeing a sealed bottle of Asgardian mead.Yeah, he was a mess. So freakin’ what.Day 1: Hello / Goodbye





	Say Goodbye To Your Childhood

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so excited to be participating in my first ever Starmora Week! Big thanks to sharkinterviewee for hosting this year. I plan on posting for each prompt, but that all depends on my schedule and whether or not the fics get finished in time. I’m super excited to share these with you, as I am really trying to explore my writing and see where I can go with it!
> 
> Without further ado, the first prompt…
> 
> ʜᴇʟʟᴏ / ɢᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ

It felt like he was losing her all over again.

In front of him, a myriad of various spirits and empty bottles lay haphazardly across the floor. Peter was testing his limits with a few shots now and again, but he was currently eyeing a sealed bottle of Asgardian mead.

Yeah, he was a mess. So freakin’ what.

For all Peter knew, he had every d’ast reason in the galaxy to be as messed up as he was in this moment. He was allowed to drink away his sorrows, even if it meant nearly killing himself with copious amounts of intergalactic alcohol that was _ definitely _ not meant for his species. Whatever, he could take it. He used to be a Ravager. Being able to hold his liquor was nothing short of a requirement.

Bile began to creep up his throat and Peter couldn’t place whether it was from the booze or from the reminder of the Ravager crew. The crew. Not Yondu. Yondu, was another story. Peter had been kept up for two straight nights ever since Yondu’s death. One problem at a time though. One grief at a time.

The Ravager crew, Peter had learned a little after Yondu’s funeral, were dead. All of them. Every last one killed, including those who had formed a mutiny and those who remained loyal to their Captain.

Now that was something Peter didn't know how to take in. It’s not like the Ravagers were his family, or even particularly nice to him, but there was still a profound sense of loss weighing him down. 

That didn't make sense. 

They beat him senseless once; a group of them pounded on him when he became too mouthy one day. He doesn't remember what he said, but getting smashed into a wall and left bleeding from your head in a closet for two days will do that to a person.

There's also that whole threatening to eat him thing. Yondu claimed it was all just some ongoing joke, but Peter doubted the other Ravagers thought so. Sometimes when food rations were low, he saw the way they looked at him. He saw the hunger in their eyes.

There was no reasonable explanation as to why their deaths filled him with numbing emptiness. It really shouldn't have been as big of a deal as he was making it out to be, and yet...

They were gone. Vanished. The only remnants of his childhood washed away and left for dead in the vastness of space. All that was left of Peter’s childhood was _ dust _ and he could not begin to accept it.

_ Dust. _

_ Dust like Ego. Dust that caught in between the crevices of his fingers and would not wash away from beneath his fingernails. _

_ Dust like the bones of Peter’s siblings in the caverns beneath Ego’s surface. _

_ Dust like the Ravagers. Dust like Yondu. _

_ Dust like his mother, who had just died all over again. Her hand seemed father away now, his fingers slipping away from her grasp. _

_ Why can't you just hold her hand? Why didn't you just hold her hand? _

Peter jumped up and threw the empty bottle clasped in his hand against the wall. The pieces shattered and clattered down onto the floor, reflecting the soft glow from the stars and bathing Yondu’s quarters with their ethereal luminescence.

He crumpled to his knees, vision hazy and unfocused. There were distant murmurs from outside the room, but the door was locked. The door had been locked ever since Yondu’s funeral, ever since Gamora admitted the existence of their unspoken thing. For two days he had holed himself away in the room, drinking until he was too wasted for coherent thought. There was the occasional knock on the door but, beyond that, the other Guardians likely wanted to give him space to grieve.

“Peter? Are you alright?”

The voice beyond the door sounded desperate. The same voice had been the one knocking within the last two days, sometimes begging to be let in and other times remaining silent. 

Gamora's voice. Soft, patient, understanding, nothing that he deserved. Nothing that he wouldn't just screw up anyway.

Screwing up like locking himself up in Yondu’s quarters for two days and refusing to let her inside, for example.

Peter’s consciousness was teetering towards the back of his mind, the alcohol inebriating him in a way that only served to send him spiraling deeper into his grief. He felt stuck in his body, stuck in a brain unable to turn off. 

Peter pulled his knees in towards his chest and dug his fingernails into his shins, leaving behind moon-shaped crescent marks on his skin. His mind recalled a particularly humid midsummer night back in Missouri; one where the half-moon illuminated the night sky, lightning bugs zipping around his head as he lay on the grass, Southern Nights drifting into his ears as he shared headphones with—

She was healthy then. He thought she had been healthy. But when was the last time _ he _ came to visit Earth? How long had his mother been carrying around a ticking time bomb in her head? How long was Ego’s disease spreading through her brain, waiting to tear their lives apart and steal Peter away in the night? Were they laying there that summer night; Peter, his mother, their Walkman, and Ego’s purpose residing itself within her head? 

_ Where did it stop? When would it stop? _

“Peter.” Her knocking became frantic. “Peter, let me know you're okay.”

What got his attention was the way her voice broke at the end; she was desperate, not hiding her vulnerability and needing him to coax her into sharing her feelings. She was all out and in the open for him.

He pulled his hands from his shins, noting the steady drops of blood streaming down his leg from the marks left by his fingernails. Peter wiped the trails away, doing little to hide them and more so smearing the blood in a much more obvious manner. Peter pushed himself off the corner of the bed, managing to get about halfway upright before crashing down into the bottles and back onto his knees.

There was a frustrated grunt behind the door paired with an odd clicking noise. The doorknob jiggled for a moment before the door swept open, her figure pushing it open with as much force as possible.

She stumbled getting herself upright, pushing off the door and regaining her balance. Her dark eyes scanned the room until they fell on his dejected form.

“Peter?” Gamora rushed towards him and kneeled down. She winced at the bottles in front of him and scrunched up her nose at the noxious fumes. Peter had been exposed to the scent long enough to not notice anymore.

“How’d ya g’t in?” Peter’s voice slurred beyond his control, the words mixing and sounding foreign on his tongue. His knees began to ache so he stuck his arms behind him to hold himself up while he shifted his legs to bend out in front of him.

Gamora gasped, looking down at his legs and onto the glass covered floor. Peter realized far too late that he had taken to kneeling directly onto the broken bottle he had thrown. A laugh stuck itself in his throat, and Peter felt his eyes welling up as tears threatened to escape.

Her shock wore off and morphed into extreme concern as she evaluated him. She looked him up and down, as if deciding whether or not he was still in one piece. Gamora’s eyes trailed their way back up to his face, softening as they met his.

“I picked the lock,” she said as pacifying as ever. “Took a while. I’m sorry.” She frowned.

“Don't apologize, ‘m the one who locked y’out.”

She nodded, frown still prevalent as her eyes revisited the empty bottles scattered across the floor. Her brow furrowed in thought before she opened her mouth to speak.

“Can you stand?”

Peter made a quick nod, his head spinning around with sickening ferocity. He thought he was going to be sick, but the vertigo died down as quick as it came. Peter gulped down the liquor snaking its way up his throat and winced. Somehow, alcohol didn’t lose its intensity the second time around. 

Gamora grabbed his arm and helped pull him upwards. Just when he thought his spinning head was finished, he was hit with another wave of unsteadiness.

Peter was reminded of a time he went to Disneyland with his mother one summer day. He wanted to go on the teacups, but she didn’t. They didn’t know about her cancer yet, only that she was getting migraines. Bad, debilitating migraines that made her dizzy and sick and tired. Peter didn’t know she was sick, only that she wasn’t as enthusiastic about doing the things they loved anymore. Peter remembered thinking that maybe she was just missing his dad—

Peter swayed to the right, nearing the point of falling straight onto his face, before Gamora grabbed him and pulled him back towards her. “No, no. You can't,” Gamora said, wrapping her arm around his waist and guiding him over to the bed. 

“Sit,” she ordered, her voice gentle yet firm.

Gamora paused for a moment. She ran her palm across his upper thigh, feeling his skin with reverence and cupping the side of one of his injured knees. Peter was sure he saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. He was about to say something; he was about to ask if she was okay, but she jumped up and walked away in a hurry.

Right.

How could he be so selfish? How could he think that somebody as perfect as Gamora would want to stay with someone as pathetic as him? _ Good, _ he thought, _ she should run if she knows what’s good for her. _ He was too lost, too broken, too unfit to give her the love she needed.

Gamora came back into his line of sight, carrying a small white case and laying it down beside him. Peter couldn’t deny the pure bliss she produced by coming back to him. Seeing her face again, even after being gone for mere moments, was enough to make him forget about how awful he was for her. Maybe she deserved better, but he’d be damned if he let that stop him from seeing her. Selfish, maybe, but_ cling onto that in which you love and never let go. _

Peter didn’t remember who told him that, but it felt pretty d’ast important right about now.

She rummaged through its contents before grabbing out a small pair of tweezers, gauze, and a black vial.

“There’s a lot of glass shards in here.” Her face was apologetic. “I need to get them out.”

Peter shook his head, vertigo still threatening to overtake his senses. He never learns.

“Don't have to. ‘Mokay.”

“No, Peter. You’re not okay,” Gamora said, throwing down the piece of gauze she had been holding. “You’re wasted and covered in glass and blood and _ not okay, _so just let me fix it! Just let me try to fix this!” Her voice cracked and she shut her eyes before throwing up a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.

Peter remained silent, knowing when to leave well enough alone. He wanted to speak up; he wanted to apologize, but somehow his inebriated brain knew that it wasn’t the right time.

“Why? I- Peter, do you think you deserve this? Why are you doing this to yourself? Isolating yourself from us and...” She gestured to the drinks he had confided in. “Yondu wouldn’t want th—”

“D’nt. Please,” Peter shook his head again, not caring about the headache or dizziness or any of it, really. “I can’t, ‘Mora, I can’t….”

Peter was crying now. “—can’t think… I can’t think ‘bout it anymore.” He felt like he was choking on his tears, breaths coming in brief and unfulfilling. 

Gamora decided to come at it from another angle, treating him as one would a startled horse. “Hey, I know. Shh, I know. We don’t have to.” She looked up from where she kneeled in front of him, stroking the uninjured part of his leg and attempting to soothe him.

Peter sniffled a bit, drunk enough and dejected enough that his breakdown only carried a small amount of embarrassment with it. That, or it was becoming easier and easier to open his heart up to her. 

“I’m going to help you now, okay? It will sting.”

It did.

She began pulling fragments of the glass from his skin, shrinking with guilt at the hisses that escaped his throat.

“Sorry,” Gamora said.

“Don’t be, ‘m stupid. My fault.” Peter recoiled with each pull the tweezers made. There was a steady throb in the center of his knees, painful and yet a pleasant change of pace.

“You are not stupid.” Gamora’s voice had become steadier, doing that thing where she forced herself to be stable enough for the both of them. “Stubborn? A little.” She cracked a mirthless smile, looking up at him before revisiting his bloody appendages.

He didn’t respond but took to watching Gamora instead. She worked with clinical precision, never missing a shard and dabbing antiseptic over each individual cut. She whispered something about him being lucky he didn’t need stitches, even if he didn’t feel so lucky in the moment. Other than that, she worked in silence. 

Once the last piece of glass was removed she pulled two bandages out of their packaging and smoothed them over the curve of his knees. Her hand lingered on one of them, tracing the edge and smoothing down the non-existent wrinkles.

“I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.”

Gamora seemed shocked by this; her hand ceased its movement as it fell down to her side. Peter tried not to reveal his disappointment at the absence of her skin touching his.

“Yondu, the Ravagers, my mom,” Peter’s voice hitched. “They all died ‘cause of me.” He looked down at the bandages, resurfaced tears falling down onto them.

“You don't actually believe that Peter, do you?” Gamora’s face fell. She came up from her spot on the floor and sat beside him. “Is that why you’ve been… why you felt like you had to do this?” Peter knew her well enough to know what she meant by _ this. _

_ Why you felt like you had to shut me out? _

“The Ravagers were always on Yondu’s case ‘bout givin’ me too much slack. Some threatened mutinies ‘cause of it before, but none of ‘em ever followed through.” Peter’s voice swelled with emotion. He cast his eyes downward, terrified that he would look up and see her nod, agreeing with the rush of words tumbling out his mouth. “Yondu stuck up for me again, right? That why they made the mutiny?”

Gamora nodded slowly, her hesitance likely increasing as she began to follow his train of thought. Her lips were parted slightly, like she was ready to interject at a moments notice.

“They killed the loyal‘uns too,” Peter said. “All of ‘em are gone. They’re all dead. If I didn't, uh… if I wasn't—”

“Peter,” Gamora cautioned. “Do not finish that sentence.” Her voice was taut, lips held in a tight line. She wanted him to stop, but how could he? How could he stop?

_ When will it stop? When will it— _

“They only rebelled ‘cause I crossed Yondu and he didn't do nothing ‘bout it.” Peter was growing more and more distressed as he spoke, the words coming out even more indistinguishable and borderline delirious. 

“Yondu sacrificed his life for me!” Peter yelled out. “Ego, _ Ego _ wouldn’t have… if my mom didn't have me, _ he _wouldn't have—” Peter stopped, placing his head against his palms. He felt heavy. His head felt like it was currently undergoing construction; his thoughts pounding like a jackhammer to the skull.

“Wouldn't have _ what, _ Peter? What else did Ego do?” Gamora swallowed, turning her body to face him directly. She was afraid, and doing quite a poor job of hiding that from him.

It’s not like hiding it would do much, anyway. Peter had come to realize early on that, even though they had many considerable differences, their fear of the unknown was something that they could relate on.

Peter held his breath, darting his eyes around Yondu’s quarters. He didn’t tell them. He didn't tell them much of _ anything _over the past few days, but this was big. This wasn't something he could just hide from them. Peter couldn’t hide something like that from her, even if saying it out loud was the equivalent of 37 blaster shots to the chest.

“He killed her.”

-o-

Gamora wasn't particularly well-versed when it came to Terran colloquial sayings and references, but there was one she came to appreciate since Peter came into her life.

‘Rip off the Band-Aid.’

She liked it because, much like its meaning, ironically, it was straight to the point. Rip the Band-Aid off. Chose to suffer for a moment rather than prolonging said pain by dragging it out. It was one of the few Terran sayings she could understand. She appreciated it and what Peter had told her it stood for.

But, what the Terran phrase failed to mention is that ripping off bandages _ hurt. _ It can blindsight you, it can make you _ bleed. _

“He… _ He what?” _

Gamora heard herself speak, but the words were lost within the thick haze of shock in her head. Her brain was on overload, screaming on a constant loop as she processed the new information.

“‘It broke my heart to put tha’ tumor in’er head,’” Peter whispered what Gamora surmised to be more or less Ego’s way of revealing his part in his mom’s death. Gamora froze, staring at him with wide eyes. “_ Bull. _ How could someone… How could _ anyone _ just—”

He closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth. Peter’s lip quivered, his body overcome with momentary shudders as he appeared to stifle the incoming sobs threatening to overtake him.

“I don’t understand this, I can’t—” Peter’s hands went up to rub his eyes, his palm running its course down his face before falling back down to his lap. “I don’t want to believe this, ‘Mora…” Her heart demolished, ripping into a million pieces at the way he murmured her name, begging her for a way to take his pain away. A wrecking ball had swooped in and destroyed their world, and she was the only one who could put it back together. Peter needed her to be strong.

After the funeral, Gamora watched Peter make a beeline for Yondu’s quarters. She had come to terms with their unspoken thing, even admitted to it, but she knew that he needed his space that night. The last thing he needed was to worry about their developing relationship as everything he had ever known was crumbling to pieces. Gamora hadn’t planned on confessing her feelings at the funeral, but the show of vulnerability was worth the slight semblance of peace that appeared in Peter’s glossy eyes as they reflected the vibrant colors all around them.

Then, one night turned into a day, two days, and suddenly no boundaries could warrant leaving her best friend to waste away all on his lonesome. Gamora made her way over to the quarters that night, declaring enough was enough. The sound of broken glass and an accelerated heartbeat unnerved her enough to make a forced entry.

She was glad she did, seeing the way he was now. His arms went to wrap around himself, flinching as they made contact with a noticeably tender area on his chest.

From Ego’s light, probably. Gamora and the other guardians made it in time to see Peter strung up with a large tendril of Celestial power; watching him crash to the floor with a sickening thud moments later. She ran over as fast as her legs could carry her, not knowing what to expect when she made it there. She breathed out a sigh of relief as she watched him struggle to stand up, unsteady but very much _ alive. _

It was terrifying watching his powers getting ripped out of him, powers they didn't even know existed until Ego showed up. Even more terrifying were the sounds of pure anguish that Gamora picked up on as they approached Ego’s palace.

Peter's pain has a way of ripping her heart out, a way that not even her own darkest hours could produce.

“He killed her,” Peter whispered again, eyes widening as truly understood the depth of this revelation. “He killed her, he _ killed _ her.” His head shot over to face Gamora, eyes wild and uncomfortably distant, his face devoid of the warmth that made him Peter.

“Peter—”

“How do I— Everything I know is a _ lie, _I don't know wha’ to believe. All that time, all that time she was suffering…”

He was choking on air now, gasping and heaving with each breath that passed his lips. His lips were pale like the rest of him, and Gamora swore she could see the tiniest bit of blue spreading.

“I know it’s hard, but you need to breathe Peter,” Gamora said, placing a hand against his back and rubbing continuous circles across it. He tried to take a few deep breaths in, but only managed to send himself spiraling further. “No, no, not like that. Look at me, Peter.” His eyes were vacant and foggy, appearing almost lifeless as they reflected the stars gleaming down on them. It unsettled her, and judging by the look on his face, they had the same effect on him.

“Don't look at them, look at me,” Gamora said, removing her hand from his back in order to grab both of his. Peter turned towards her, still hyperventilating and way too far gone for words. “You know the drill. In and out, slowly.”

In the midst of shallow breaths and occasional drunken hiccuping, Peter lay his head against her shoulder. Gamora noted the steady drops of tears that left her skin warm and damp.

The sobs became less frequent, his breathing evening out as she kept reminding him to slow down or take deeper breaths. Soon enough, he became stable, though the tears never ceased to roll down his face and onto her skin.

“No matter–,” Gamora began, finally finding the words she knew he needed to hear. “No matter what or who you have lost, no one can take their memories from you, Peter. You will always _ always _ carry that with you.” Gamora ran her thumb across the back of one of his hands, letting go of another to play with his hair as his head remained limp against her shoulder. “Ego has taken so much from you already Peter, he cannot take that away too.”

“He took away my childhood, ‘Mora. He took away my family, he almost took ‘way all of you.”

“I know, but we are still with you.” Gamora paused, fighting back the emotion in her voice. “If I could change it and make things different for you I would. If I could make it so you never had to go through that I would, Peter, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“But, after everything that’s happened—having you in my life… Yondu and your mother having you in their lives; I am certain they would not have it any other way. Even knowing what we know now.”

A lifetime of misery, a cruel and bitter end; it was all worth it to her if it meant having him in her life. 

“I know it is that way for me. You cannot blame yourself for this. You cannot blame yourself for being alive when none of us would have it any other way. This was entirely out of your control, Peter,” Gamora explained, some of her own tears falling down to meet his.

Peter nodded against her collarbone, squeezing her hand as tight as he was able, which wasn't much considering his mixed state of both exhaustion and intoxication.

“Y’really think so?” Peter’s words began to slur more than they had been, his adrenaline dying off and leaving him on the brink of oblivion.

“I know so. They loved you Peter.” _ I love you, Peter. No, too soon. _

_ You know you mean it, why won’t you just— _

“I bet they’re together now. Probably talking about how great of a man they raised,” Gamora let a small laugh escape her lips, massaging his head through his tangled locks. 

Peter hummed beneath her touch, visibly relaxing and releasing tension he had been carrying for far too long. “You believe ‘n something after? I’d like to. God, I’d like to.”

Gamora didn't remember much about her people’s religion, hardly any of it if she was being honest. There wasn’t a lot of room for holiness aboard Thanos’ ship, and torture-filled days made it hard to believe in any god, but—

“I do,” Gamora decided. “It would be nice, our parents somewhere they could be at peace. My mother and father would have met Yondu and your mother. I think they would like each other.”

“That sounds nice.” Peter was melting beneath her touch, eyes flickering between a state of open and closed. She smiled down at him as he leaned against her completely. “My mom would’a loved you,” he said.

Those words meant more to Gamora than he could ever know. From what Peter had told her, being loved by a woman composed of such love and warmth was the greatest compliment he could have given her.

“You can sleep now, Peter. I’ve got you. I’m going to be right here.” Gamora’s eyes were moist and red, an unintentional result of the bliss she felt from Peter being alive and on his way to being put back together again. It would be a journey, one that would take from him, mentally and physically. 

Peter was out by the time she finished her sentence. She took care when lifting his injured legs from where they hung off the side of the bed, shifting him closer to the center and repositioning their bodies to lay side by side. She wrapped her arm around his midsection, finding herself unopposed to a show of affection that would have left her feeling exposed and unsure weeks ago. Now, she only felt him.

It was never easy, Gamora knew, saying goodbye to your childhood. It wasn't easy leaving behind everything you once knew, the people you once had.

But—

She would help him get through it. 

She knew a thing or two about having to say goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I only capable of angst with a tinsy tiny bit of comfort slapped in at the end for good measure? Don’t worry though, fluff is coming soon. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! Vol. 2 has limitless potential for angst and I will read and write about it as long as possible. Oh, and I wanted to be able to exploit my headcanon that Peter reverts to his more Ravager styled-dialect when he’s drunk. Also, if you haven’t noticed by now, my other headcanon that Peter Quill has panic attacks and PTSD is not going anywhere. Leave it to me to force my own issues onto fictional characters.
> 
> As always, please leave kudos, reviews, or drop in your favorite quotes! You know the drill! ;))


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